


Coming Home

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Yakimono
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-27
Updated: 2014-04-27
Packaged: 2018-01-20 23:25:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1529639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chilton gets released from the hospital after getting shot in the face, and can't seem to get his mind to quiet enough for him sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming Home

When Frederick is discharged from the hospital- newly scarred, newly healed, newly found innocent- he doesn’t know how he feels. There is something pounding, in the back of his head, down near his neck where the bullet shot through.He sits in the taxi he hired and considers making the driver turn around so he can tell his doctor that there’s something still wrong with him, but he never actually wants to enter a hospital again.

 

Which will probably complicate things, in the future, considering he runs one. But he isn’t thinking about that right now.

 

The driver pulls up to his hotel- he isn’t thinking about the state of his house right now, either- and the pounding hasn’t stopped and he has to stop himself from stomping up to his room in time with it like some sort of child. It takes three tries to get his keycard to work and he can’t quite keep himself from opening the door with more force than strictly necessary. It makes a dull thud against the wall and Frederick honestly can not be bothered to care as he stalks over to the bed and flips the TV on.

 

He turns it to some mindless action movie he would usually hate and tries not notice the remote shaking in his hand.

 

He lets himself fall back into the hotel bed, lets the too-noisy flick wash over him, and tries not to notice his fingers tapping at the mattress to a beat much too steady to belong to the movie in front of him.

 

He relaxes, eventually, but can not sleep even as the movie turns out to have a pointless sequel exactly like the first. The pounding still won’t stop and when the station eventually switches to late-night infomercials he cannot stop his mind from chasing at it like a hunting dog.

 

In retrospect, it was the dog analogy that cemented his ruination.

 

Suddenly the comforter of the hotel bed feels like fur, clenched suddenly in his fist. He is pushing at it, pushing it away, trying to talk to-

 

He is being taken in, being allowed to use a shower, being talked to and soothed and betrayed. The pounding intensifies as the woods flash behind his eyelids, black and brown and white everywhere and he is running and he is being caught, processed, no one cares what he wants he does _not_ want Alana Bloom he wants Will Graham can he please just speak to Will Graham no one is going to-

 

A gun goes off inside his head and he is up and calling another cab as the pounding intensifies- it is not just at the back of his neck, anymore, but singing from his cheek, his head thudding on both ends.

 

He tells the taxi driver to take him to Wolf Trap, Virginia.

 

-

 

He marches up to Will’s door and gives him a taste of the war drums going off in Frederick’s head.

 

His grasp of the hour is a bit hazy, but he still knows it to be late enough that the time it takes for Will to get to the door does not surprise him. The lights switching on in the house are the only forewarning he gets before the door swings open and there he is, exhausted and irritable and clad only in his nightclothes, “Chilton what the hell-”

 

It is only when Frederick’s hand is flying towards Will’s face and he catches a glimpse at the shocked snarl the other man’s lip curls into that it begins to occur to him that this was a profoundly stupid idea.

 

But by then it’s too late, and Will has sidestepped his sub-par swing and taken his wrist in hand, gripping it tight enough that he thinks he might feel something grinding under his skin. The pounding changes abruptly, no longer the boom of drums but rather the skittering beat of a rabbit’s heart.

 

“Chilton what the _fuck_ do you think you’re-” and now he is sobbing on Will Graham’s front porch (again) and Will is looking at him as if he’s burst into flames. “Ch- Chilton?”

 

“I- I can’t- you were the only-” Frederick breathes in a wheezy breath, throat hitching.”I didn’t know where else to go.”

 

He isn’t certain if he is talking about right now or the last time he was here, and Will seems to pick up on that. The grip on his wrist loosens as he’s pulled inside, the door shut behind him. Frederick is too busy focusing on breathing to be afraid.

 

Will lets go of his wrist and leans against the closed door, covering his own eyes with a hand and sighing heavily. “Chilton, I didn’t know Miriam would-”

 

“You didn’t have to call Crawford in the first place, Will!” His voice is cracking, he is embarrassed and frightened and betrayed in his betrayers home and his voice is cracking. “You could have- I just wanted to use your _shower_.”

 

Frederick hugs himself and sniffles and holds back small, hitching sobs and glares at Will. Will looks back, eyes hovering somewhere around his left ear as they always do, and Frederick sees his adam’s apple bob and his jaw clench, before Will takes a step toward him and goes to grab him.

 

Frederick flinches, and then freezes when he realizes that his own arms are not the only ones wrapped around him anymore. He has been pulled close to the chest of someone only half a head taller than him, his face- wet with tears- pressed into the shoulder of a ratty t-shirt. Will’s arms are warm and tight and firm around him and the overwhelming feeling of safety he has not experienced since he came home to Gideon in his guest room just forces another sob from his throat.

 

“Shh, Chilton.” Will’s hand is carding through his hair like he’s one of the other man’s dogs, careful not to stray too far to down the back of his neck, and Frederick has not felt anything so good in a long time. “It’s over now, Frederick. You’re safe.”

 

Frederick’s sobs turn to heavy breathes against Will’s wet shirt, and he finds it in himself to speak again. “I don’t feel safe- nowhere feels safe anymore. Ex- except you’re- now, I-” His arms unwrap around himself to curl around Will’s waist, clinging to him too tightly if his intake of breath is anything to go by.

 

There is silence, for a moment, and then- “C’mon.”

 

Will is stepping away and tugging at Frederick’s shoulder and he can’t do anything but follow him, the t-shirt Will was sleeping in still clutched tightly in one fist. Frederick feels like a child using the man as a security blanket, and did not previously realize he could feel any more pathetic.

 

“I- where are you-” but Will just shushes him again, and so he is quiet as he is led through Will’s home and into his bedroom, into his bed.

 

Will sits him down and kneels before him and pulls off his shoes, tugs his tie away, slides him out of his jacket. Still, Frederick is quiet.

 

Will slides back into bed and pulls Frederick down with him, curls up around him and drapes an arm over his stomach. Frederick doesn’t actually want to say anything- anything that might snap Will out of whatever he’s doing here so he’ll kick Frederick out of his bed, his room, his home- but his mouth opens anyway.

 

Will speaks before he can. “Go to sleep, Frederick.”

 

And he notices that the inside of his head is quiet, for the first time since he left the hospital. That is has been quiet since Will took him in his arms. So sleep he does.

**Author's Note:**

> Well this was incredibly self indulgent.


End file.
